Each Shard of the Mirror
by Meredith Bronwen Mallory
Summary: Five things that never happened to Padme Naberrie. A series of unrelated short stories taking place in different universes, all with a postROTS PadmeVader twist.
1. Chapter 1

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Each Shard of the Mirror 1/5

--or-- 'Five Things That Never Happened to Padme Naberrie'

by Meredith Bronwen Mallory

I. I Have Become Death

There is mist on the river tonight. Thin and tremulous, it drifts along the water, as deft and mysterious as the movement of wings. All along the green, night-scented banks, its tide pulling ever onward to the waterfalls' distant roar. It winds around the ebony torch-poles, making the tiny moonstone and far-jade beads tinkle, like the bracelets of a child, lost in the dark. All along the canals of the capital, each flame has become a diffuse star, somehow alone amidst its companions. It is a righteous mist, they say, a fitting one. It penetrates every side street, lays like a veil over the whole of Theed.

Theed; where they have come to mourn.

They come in their dark robes, satin and velvet rustling in the lengthy procession. They come in their silken masks of mourning, or with black tear-shapes painted near their eyes. They bare flowers for laying and prayer wheels for burning; they bring their confusion, their sadness-- and they bring their fear. The crowd is large, pressed close in the streets around the central canal. Banners bearing the crest of Amidala-- the ancient Nubian characters for peace and the protective, honorable sword-- shift gently, though the air seems heavy and still. The last blush of violet breathes against the mountainous horizon, silence broken only by the singular, steady notes of the silver lute. Low tones, a bird's low coo, hang suspended and then fade, like drying tears.

No one speaks at this funeral. What is there to say? Fear has closed their throats as surely as it has clouded the future. The closing of her coffin may well be the closing of an era, and the word 'empire' flies, ugly and buzzing, along the airwaves. Unheard and unseen, but poisonous. The pavilion is clear, ringed by mourners, as the twin rows of gray-clad women file in, faces painted ghostly white. A single slash of black cuts through their powdered expressions, a painful contrast. The abruptness of a young death. Now Captain Typho and his guard, the aging man stone-faced, good eye as unreadable as the one covered by the patch. Her handmaidens, palms up, filled with flower petals, faces made into downward shadows by the flickering lights. The crowd stirs a little; the beasts pulling her coffin clomp slowly onward, gentle even if their burden feels it not. Her family flows close behind, swathed in the silver and blue of the recently bereaved. Staring is unavoidable, but gazes are respectfully quick, flickering. There comes the shift of many bodies bowing as the current Queen passes, looking painfully young.

Padme Amidala is beautiful in death, but not the way she was when life shone from her moon-mysterious features, when there was breath to pass her heart-shaped lips. The crowd stirs with memory; of holotransmissions, of public audiences. Here she is at her coronation, bright and ideal, one of the youngest rulers in the history of Naboo. At the Liberation festival, face painted but hair revealed, her smile as blinding as the Globe of Peace the Gungans brought. New Year's speeches, her farewell address. Her brave, unwavering voice, ringing out in the Senate Chambers-- 'wake up, Senators, you must wake up!' Her protests, determined, but drowned out as more and more power flows to the Chancellor. All this, now laid in the silver casket, eyes closed, weeping white-flowers adorning her hair.

Jobal Naberrie reaches a weathered hand down to caress her youngest daughter's cheek. The skin is cold; the hair she tucks back behind an ear-- as she had countless times in the past!-- is silken but dry. Her lips touch the forehead she once smoothed after nightmares, and she backs away with her face in her hands. Sola steps forward, husband and eldest daughter at her side. Ryoo lifts small Pooja up in her arms-- they kiss their fingers, press them to their Aunt's forehead. They say goodbye, turning to look at still and sullen Ruwee, standing some steps away. Padme's father moves slowly, places his hands against her coffin as if it is an effort to stand. His face is distant, confused-- the face of a man who believes he must be dreaming. He cries the way a man does, with short gasps and few tears. His wife comes to lead him away.

A sound comes, distant, rumbling. Within the crowd, some turn their heads. Their eyes are bright with moisture, but wondering-- they look to the east, where the three moons rise, to the west and shadowy hulk of mountains. It is there a storm coming? Is it thunder? It's a terrible noise. At the edges of the gathering, some have turned around completely, staring out into the mist. There are footsteps, an army of ghosts moving in the hazy realm between the living and the dead. A woman steps forward, eyes narrowed in an attempt to discern. In another moment, she is moving quickly backwards, hands grasping wildly for the touch of another living being.

Her mouth opens in a silent scream. The crowd parts, and the intruder passes through.

The unease has filtered through to the Pavilion now, moving like the ripple of a wave. Whispers come, questioning, fighting down panic as tiny, newborn rumors attempt to fly. The sound is closer, like the breath of some terrible forest creature, stumbling for the first time from the safe columns of its wooded fortress. The light from the torches catch on an ebony mask, making the dull eyes look wild. They give him wide berth, so right to be afraid of a storm. His presence brings intensity like the air before lightning, heady, cloying, and alive with death. It is Pooja who sees him first, her small face turning from the Nubian Holy Man and his softly whispered blessings for the next life. Her little face can not disguise her disbelief or her terror. Unable to look away, she pulls at her elder sister's embroidered sleeve. The first yank weakened by fear, each tug increases in intensity as He nears. Ryoo's hand moves, swatting-- it is only then that Pooja turns, giving the taller girl's long, dark braid a single mighty pull.

"Pooj!" the nickname is hissed, half annoyed and half-scandalized, until Ryoo turns her head. Her body rocks a little as Pooja buries her face in her sister's skirts. "It's Death!" Pooja's muffled voice barely carries to Ryoo's ears. "It's Death, and he's come for Aunt Padme!"

"Mother--" Ryoo falters, but Sola has already seen. Everyone has-- and they stare, unable to move, holding onto one another as a great wind pushes the mist away.

He is a death's head in black, each step that of a creature which has clawed itself out of the grave. The sound is his breath, the terrible in and out of a heart that will no more know variation; only pounding, onward to infinity, eternity without end. Behind him, an army of skulls hover, stopping at the entrance to the pavilion. They stand there, featureless soldiers of a black and terrible Lord. He does not slow as he crosses the courtyard-- one arm raises, makes a decisive cut through the air, and the retainers fall away as if physically shoved. Approaching the coffin as one might approach an altar, he stops, expression carved and unfathomable.

"My baby--," Jobal's voice is a tiny cry, and Sola pulls her back just in time. Ryoo and Pooja crouch together behind their mother, but Ruwee stands alone, head tilting as the intruder's voice rumbles. Only the Naberries are close enough to hear it-- Sola and Jobal close their eyes against the very sound, even as terrible possibility pierces their hearts.

"Padme," says the monster. "Padme--" It's not the voice-- not the flat, mechanical simulation-- but the way its said. The name is said as prayer, as endearment and as benediction; it is said with intensity they have only heard once before. "It can't be true," the dark Lord reaches into the coffin, black arms coming to cradle Padme's still form. With none of his family to stop him, Ruwee comes forward, eyes still confused, but also terribly awake.

"Who?" he asks, even as the intruder tenderly lifts his daughter away. "Who are you?" Jobal sobs openly, rocking on her knees and calling to her husband as if she believes he is already lost.

Sola says, "Papa-- please, come away!"

"He's taking her to the Great Darkness," Pooja says, still held securely by her sister. "He's taking her to the land of the dead." An image comes to Ryoo from an old story, the tale of the Barefoot Princess, who knew the misfortune to become Death's Bride. Laughter, crazy and frightened, bubbles up in her throat-- she smothers it in her sister's light curls.

It is as if the monster does not see Ruwee at all. Instead, he appears to stare intently down at the still face of Padme's corpse, searching for something. Jobal reaches for her husband, draws him back to the knot of her family, staring at the intruder as one. A single step, then another, before the dark Lord falls to his knees.

"Padme," he says, arms almost seeming to rock the body he holds. "Padme, please come back. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Padme you have... you have to..." He holds her close, large, blunt hands caressing her hair, brushing against her cheek. "Padme, please..."

There is no mist on the river, and Vader's cry rents through the still air, agonized.


	2. A Final, Distant Shore

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EACH SHARD OF THE MIRROR:

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A Final, Distant Shore 1/1

by Meredith Bronwen Mallory

They walked down the path together, hand in hand. It was evening on Naboo-- the sun had just begun to dip down behind the ancient towers and spires of Theed, turning the high grass of the countryside to burnished gold. They walked away from the city, their shadows growing, half born images proceeding them down the sandy way. Padme walked slowly, free hand swinging at her side in the rhythm of an unhurried young maiden, not the stately, distant queen who's trappings and pale continence she'd recently washed away. Occasionally, she glanced over at Anakin, his face turned down under his sandy hair. He kept his eyes on the dusty path, feeling each one of Padme's fingers wrapped around his small hand-- each whirl and texture, the lines of her palm. He couldn't look at her and feel that, not at the same time; not Obiwan's voice, shuddering under its new authority, echoed so readily in his mind. The boy toed his new boots against the ground, kicking at the odd larger pebble, looking at the dainty curve of her ankles in the brown-strapped sandals she wore. Padme took up the game and he caught her smile in one brief, surreptitious glance. They began gently punt the quartz rock between them, until a too boisterous kick from Anakin sent their toy skittering off into the grass. He looked up then, towards the darkening horizon, purple fading into blue, fading into the sea. Naboo's three moons were pearly smudges of pastel, hovering low.

"I'm glad Obiwan allowed you to come with me," Padme spoke softly, so that her voice did not break their comfortable silence, but blending into it, bringing it to life.

"Me too," Anakin said, pulling at his loose tunic. "Especially since"

"You leave tomorrow," Padme finished gently.

A pause. Off in the taller brush, a lone insect called out to its fellows. "Yeah."

"It's what you want," she wasn't so much reminding him, it seemed, as she was speaking his thoughts out loud. With her own quiet certainty, "What you're meant to be."

"I know, but I" A thousand words threatened to spill onto his tongue, and more thoughts still, to heavy and nebulous for him to explain. 'Want to stay here with you,' he thought with passionate honesty. 'Miss my mother,' was just as strong on it's heels. "don't think they like me," he finished lamely, eyes far away.

"They've agreed to take you now," the girl-queen murmured, and through her soft palm Anakin thought he felt a beat of kinship, as if she knew the feeling. "It doesn't matter if they like you or not-- if you work hard, if you succeed, they'll have to accept that they were wrong."

"You think so?" he looked up, the hope in his eyes needing to see the belief in hers. She was beautiful in the dying, shadowed light; cloud of umber hair tied back with two simple blue ribbons, framing her face. On Tatooine, Anakin heard stories of a Queen so beautiful that planets warred over her favor, over the privilege of living under her rule. He could see that now, in the curve of her smile.

"I know so," she reached down, brushing elegant fingers against his new Padawan braid. "Pretty soon, they'll forget that they denied" her voice trailed off, respectful of Qui-Gon's loss, "you entry, and start to think it was all their idea." Anakin smiled at that, a hint of mischief playing behind his blue eyes.

"Almost there," she announced as they followed the gentle curve of the path.

Anakin lifted his hand to trace a shape growing on the horizon. "What's that?"

"A temple," Padme answered. There were memories in her tone as she added, "Long ago, before the Naboo discovered the secrets of flight or space travel, my people build huge galleons that transversed the seas. There's a lot of water on Naboo--"

He grinned up at her, "Is there ever!"

Another smile. "--and the seas can be incredibly treacherous during the winter seasons. The temple was built for the husbands and wives of sailors, so they could pray to the Nereids for their loved ones' safety."

The path stopped abruptly before them, giving way to an aged wooden walkway, tendrils of grass growing up between the planks. They climbed the few steps in tandem, Padme's white skirt brushing against her knees.

"What's a Nereid?"

"A water-child. A woman of the ocean," she said, coming to a stop, "they guide the ships and the waves."

"Like an angel?" She blushed, looked away.

"Close your eyes," she told him, "I want you to see it all at once."

"Alright," uttered without hesitation. He let her lead him further along the platform, and down a set of steps, until the ground began his feet was once more the impressionable sand he was so used to.

"Go ahead and look."

Her words gave the darkness form, and he opened his eyes, unable to stem the light gasp that sprung from his throat. The fields and light woods were gone, as were the outlines of the temple and the gates leading away from Theed. Before him, water lay as far as the eye could see, stretching like the wings of some graceful nocturnal bird. Waves lapped against the shore, like a thousand echoes, rushing in and out. The waterfalls of Theed had astonished Anakin, endlessly churning and white; but here was the ocean, endless in it's own way, strange as the sands of the Dune Sea, but fathomlessly deep as well. Consuming. He gripped her hand, eyes wide with disbelief.

"It doesn't end," he said quietly, unnerved as he watched a stronger wave dislodge a curled shell from the sand, pulling it forever out to sea.

"Don't you like it?" she asked, opal eyes wide with concern.

"I do," he hurried to assure you, "I've never seen anything like it, but it's so **big**. I've only seen rain on holovid Has this always been here?"

"Since the beginning of this world," Padme crouched beside him, arm around his small waist. "Some say the people of Naboo came from the sea, from the Core." She stood suddenly, smile reassuring and childlike, eager to share her treasure. "Take off your shoes," she encouraged, bending down to unbuckle her own. Anakin watched as she stretched, reaching around to untie the sash at her waist. Her white dress slipped easily off her shoulders, revealing a modest swimming tunic beneath. Kicking her clothing away, Padme ran towards the waves, body moving with an easy grace. Anakin watched her, spellbound, as she turned her profile towards the endless deep, eyes closed, like listening to old and favored music. There was nothing to stir in him but boyish wonder, but it swelled in him and, like the ocean, its reverence consumed.

'You're just a little boy,' she'd said, hands cupping the japor snippet. In that moment, Anakin felt as though a door was opening somewhere, spilling in a sliver of silvery light. He stood on the beach and felt himself older, taller, standing at his own side. His breathlessness was the same now as it would be in the future, she would always make his throat close over this precious feeling. Beyond that, the echo of a coin far down in the well, he sensed something else; something endlessly jealous, eager to pursue him down from some darker time and--

"Come on!" Padme beckoned him, the very breath of here and now. "The moons are low-- the tide isn't bad at all." He shed his trousers and tunic for the shorter breeches and undershirt beneath. The first step was hesitant-- he was still half certain he was dreaming-- but she came to gently take his hand, leading him a little ways in. "Isn't this nice? I always loved to swim, when I was a little."

"You can swim?" he asked, water rushing back and forth between his thin calves. "In **this**?"

"Yes." The look in her eyes became far away, and he felt a prick of frustration at how easily she left her body, leaving him with no way to follow her. "I haven't been swimming since oh, before I was elected Queen." He reached out to her, forced to put his comforting hand on her arm rather than her shoulder.

"You're a person as well as a Queen," he had no other way of putting it, but the flare of gratitude behind her dark-moon gaze told him he'd gotten it right.

"There's not always time for things like this," she confessed. "But I wanted to make time, before you go." She walked a little more deeply into the waves, and he followed.

Earnestly, he said, "I'm not going to forget about you."

"Nor will I forget you," she tugged at the length of leather twine about her neck, pulling the japor snippet out to lay against her breast. "Things are changing, though. They'll never be the same as they are just right now."

"Show me how to swim," he said, thinking only of pulling her from the tide of her own sorrow. She smiled at him, eager to share in this simple pleasure. The water felt so strange against his body, cool and forgiving as it rose to cover his stomach, then his chest. He was watching it lap against Padme's waist when the panic returned to him, filling his sight with images of the water-logged sand as it dropped, mercilessly, off into nothing. Embarrassed and afraid in equal measures, he grabbed both her hands and held on tight.

"It's alright," she murmured, "I'm right here. Trust me-- it's easy." She moved closer, supporting him under arms, letting the water help her lift his small form.

"Lay back" she instructed, hands moving to cradle him, one between his shoulders, the other at the backs of his knees.

"Padme?" He held himself still, feeling small and insubstantial as the sea rocked him.

"Yes?"

"The temple. It's for people who drowned, isn't it?"

"Out in the open water, during wrecks at sea," she soothed. "You're doing fine."

"You won't let go? Not 'til I'm ready?"

"Not 'til you're ready-- never in a million years." He couldn't help but grin at that, eyes closed to hide the true extent of his pleasure.

"If you balance yourself, you can float on your back," she told him. "Take a deep breath-- I'll be here." Later, her voice would come to him in the empty spaces between the temple columns, in the silence of the meditation chamber-- balance. She'd be there. 'Nereid,' he thought. 'Sea Angel'.

Softly, after a long moment, he said, "Alright." He felt her hands ease off slightly, but thought that they still remained. "Have you let go yet?"

"Anakin," Padme's happiness flowed through her voice, "you're doing it on your own." He opened his eyes to see her grinning, standing very close by, hair dangling in the water.

"Wizard," he laughed aloud, and she answered-- he craned his head back to look at her more fully. She saw his mistake and reached forward to catch him before his body began to sink. The waves drew them out a little further-- he made two paddles towards her and latched on, arms going about her neck. She could still stand at that depth, and began to move them towards the shore, one arm holding him against her. He lingered as long as he could, before setting his feet back on the sea floor.

Padme sat down just where the waves met the beach, head tipped back to the sky. Now the night was red and amber, violet and pink-gold with the sun's vanishing fingertips.

"We should get back soon," she said when he came to sit beside her. He looked back towards their clothing, laying abandoned on the white sand, and tugged on his short little braid.

"I guess." He rolled his shoulders. "Thank you, Padme."

"You're welcome." She let him sidle up against her, showed him the shell she'd discovered in the sand at her side. "And thank you."

He frowned. "For what?"

She didn't answer-- instead she turned her gaze back to where the sky and sea were bleeding together, and in a while she rose lead him away.

'Don't fight the current,' she'd told him, years later, on the shores of one of countryside's large lakes. 'Work with it-- make it work with you.' He'd been taller than her, by then, could lift her as she once lifted him, pull her further into the depths. Her body was at ease in the water; she swam around him effortlessly, dipping under the water to reappear somewhere else. When she'd pulled the folds of her blue robe up to cover her shivering form, he'd come to hold her from behind, tangle his fingers in her damp tresses and kiss her cooled shoulder. His throat had closed around that priceless happiness, to hold it inside him along with their secret.

He couldn't breathe.

Night or day on Kumino-- it mattered little. The sky was dark and thunderous as his own voice and constant hiss as he strode through the torrent of rain. The bright lights of the facility pained his eyes, before the lenses of his mask were able to adjust properly. Years and an endless, burning pain now lay in a deep gulf between himself and her voice. His loneliness was like Kumino's sea; unforgiving, and utterly without mercy. His wet cloak was taken and he was led away, apologies were made. Here, said the calm voice of Taun We, the storm never stopped. He said nothing to ease the tall, gray being's nervousness or alleviate her fear. She clicked nervously in the back of her throat, asking that he wait just a moment more. Her thumbless hands worked quickly over the datapad of yet another uniform white door.

Sometimes, when his phantom limbs ached or he stood on the precipice of dreams, Vader thought he could feel, so fleeting, the touch of Padme's hand between his shoulders, as he had on that long-ago beach. She cradled his passage into the darkness of his own mind, and she promised she wouldn't let him fall. He felt her ghost's touch as Taun We ushered him into the room, black eyes wide. Vader had no patience for her any more, and no thought either-- the room is host to a small, perfectly cylindrical tank, and that was all he saw. Once, his untrained mind had reached towards the future and felt what he did now; a burning hatred, envy, for the weak creature he'd once been.

'You have what I want,' he thought at the echoes of himself. 'You couldn't protect her, damn you.' The Emperor's horrible pronouncement sounded soon after that in the caverns of the Sith Lord's mind; he saw her, still and terribly beautiful in death, drifting in her silver boat down the canals of Theed.

He crossed to the tank, hands raised but hesitant to touch.

"All proceeds well?" A demand, rather than an inquiry.

"Our operation is always smooth, Lord Vader-- this was no difficult task."

Vader shook his head, eyes fixed on the tiny, perfect form suspended behind the glass. So much progress in three months. The baby girl lay still, eyes closed as she curled around herself.

"When?"

"In about twelve hours, my Lord."

As if she could sense them, the baby moved a tiny fist, touching it against the tank.

Sea Angel. Nereid. Water-child.

Vader raised a large, black gloved hand and placed it against the glass.


End file.
